


Everywhere the Shadows Touch

by Vegetableswillhavetheirrevenge



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And Mary a little, As is probably clear from the summary, But I don't think it's a style of one which is really necessary to tag?, But I'm not fully tagging them 'cos they don't play anywhere near as big a role as Sam or Billie, Contains spoilers for certain parts of S14, Dean Castiel and Jack are there too, Gen, I am very bad at summaries, Please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, Very brief references to abuse and sexual slavery (not of any named characters), there is a major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 23:51:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17714048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vegetableswillhavetheirrevenge/pseuds/Vegetableswillhavetheirrevenge
Summary: Death is something the Winchesters have faced fairly often, and it's not something Sam is going to run from if it means he can stop Michael (especially if he can save a re-subjugated Dean in the process)....What he isn't expecting is the choice he needs to make next.





	Everywhere the Shadows Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ahodgepodgeofthings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahodgepodgeofthings/gifts).



> So inspiration finally hit. Just... not on any of the fics I *intended* for it to hit on. Lol.
> 
> This one is actually my first official prompt fill, and was inspired by a prompt (shown in the end note) in a discord server I joined just the other day. I thought it was gonna be a relatively short, 2000 word-ish thing... and then it wasn't. Lol. (I've also only done one proof-read, so apologies for any errors I may have missed.)
> 
> Just in case: there *are* a couple of lines in this which are vaguely critical of Dean. They're sort of blink-and-you'll-miss-it, though, so I think this will probably be fine even if you're a fan of his. There are also, in case you missed it in the tags, *very* brief references to both abuse and sexual slavery- though not involving any named or canon characters. They come around 4800 words in, and you can avoid them if you miss the three brief paragraphs following the one which ends in "cope with and process all that he is seeing and hearing and feeling." And there's a mention of Transphobia two paragraphs after that.
> 
> Also: I haven't seen the latest episode (Lebanon) yet, so please no spoilers!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Sam dies on a Hunt. Sort of. It feels kind of strange to lump ‘killing Michael’ in with their regular Hunts. But still, that’s how it happens. Forty-three days after the other world’s Michael took over Dean’s body once again and ensconced with his brother, Sam tracks down and faces up against the Archangel once more. And, this time, he dies in the process.

Sam dies.

And then he wakes to find himself standing slap-bang in the middle of the empty space between his own empty corpse and Dean’s unconscious frame.

“Smart,” comes a voice from behind him, and Sam turns to find Billie surveying the scene with an almost uncharacteristic expression of something akin to respect on her face. “Very smart, Sam. I’m impressed.”

Sam follows her line of sight. Takes in the charcoal echoes of feathery wings spreading out from his brother’s shoulder blades and across the elaborate furniture of the hotel room. Watches as Rowena, with a shuddering breath, disappears into the hallway, shoulders tense and head high and stiff. Watches, too, as Jack falls to his knees beside the body. There are tears streaming shamelessly down Jacks face, and his hands are shaking where they rest against Sam’s former chest, and not even Castiel’s futile attempts (after healing Dean’s wounds) to comfort their son are enough to sooth the grief and guilt which surge in equal measure through Sam’s stomach.

He swallows tightly and shakes his head. “Rowena did most of the work. I was just the final chess piece.”

“Your plan, Sam. Your idea. Your theory. Your research and calculations. Your risk. Someone else helping you put it all together doesn’t change that.”

And he supposes that’s true, in a way. It _had_ been his idea. Using Rowena’s spells to access the cage? Combining those spells with soul magic (using Sam’s soul, of course- it being the one with the most connection to their target, and him not wanting Jack to damage _his_ soul any more) to filter _their_ Michael’s Grace _out_ of it’s original owner and _into_ Sam, rendering him capable- with the right spell at the right moment- of wielding the Archangel blade. It’s a shame that he had to allow the Grace to burn him out in the process, but he doesn’t regret it, despite the tapestry playing out in front of his eyes. Not if it means the world is safe now.

Not if it means _Dean_ is safe now.

It will be fine. _They_ will be fine. Eventually. The better brother survived in the end.

But the necessity of his actions doesn’t change anything that’s happening _now_. Doesn’t mean he can magically stop Jack’s tears or wipe away the pained lines etching their way across Castiel’s face.

“Dean’s not going to be happy with me when he wakes up,” he tries to joke. And Billie, to her credit, doesn’t comment on any of the words left unsaid.

“We’ll deal with Dean later. First though, Sam, you have a choice to make.”

“I’ll come with you. You don’t have to worry about me trying to stay here.” _(Now Dean trying to get him_ back _, on the other hand…)_

“Oh, I have no doubt of that. Your choice, however, is a little more… _complex_ than that, I’m afraid.”

With a silent apology, Sam finally tears his eyes away from his family and turns to study Billie’s expression. What is going on? Is she going to make him choose where he’s going to end up? That seems at odds with the reaper’s previous declarations about the Empty, but this wouldn’t be the first time she’s surprised him.

The single eyebrow Billie arches at him makes it feel like it won’t be the last.

“I have something to show you, Sam.”

There’s a _shift_ in the air, and suddenly Sam doesn’t need to _force_ himself not to look back at the others anymore. ( _He tries not to focus on the fact that his last memory of them- if, that is, he's allowed to_ keep  _his memories- will always be of their grief._ ) “Dean told me about this place,” he says, glancing around at the shelves upon shelves of books which seem to stretch out endlessly in every direction. Why has Billie brought him _here?_ “Are these deaths mine?”

The eyebrow arches again, and a head tilt which gestures towards the nearest shelf is not far behind. “Why don’t you take a look?”

Curiosity peaked despite the tingle of suspicion and dread running up and down his spine, Sam looks at Billie once more before stepping closer to the nearest of the shelves.

The name upon the spines of the first books he sees freezes him solidly in place.

“No.”

It can’t be.

This has to be a trick. It _has_ to be. Because there, right in front of him- written in letters as plain as the nose on his face-

_D. Winchester_

One trembling hand reaches up of its own accord, stopping mere millimetres from its goal, and he stares, transfixed, as it refuses to go any further. Refuses to confirm by touch what his eyes can no longer deny.

His head whips around, horrified gaze landing once more on the still, calm figure of Death.

“Dean is _alive_ . He _has_ to be alive.”

“He is.”

“Then why-?”

“Because these books,” Billie begins, stepping forward with steel in her gaze and lifting off the book which had so captured his attention mere moments before, “do not change easily, Sam Winchester. Once in a while a couple might appear or disappear, depending on a particular choice a person makes. But they do _not_ just change on a whim. The only time I have seen that happen? Was the moment the other Michael first stepped into this world. Big. Dramatic. A merging of two worlds which were never intended to collide, brought about by the actions of one who considers himself a god.

“...So imagine my surprise,” she continues, before flipping the book open and turning it towards him in an action so deliberate that Sam can’t help but follow the action with his eyes, “when it happened again.”

Lines of matter-of-fact text fill Sam’s vision, but only for the barest of moments before Billie pulls the book back again. Long enough, though, for him to see what needed to be seen.

_-August 19th 2022-_

_-drained-_

_-Vetala-_

Before Sam has more than a second to process, however, the fact that Dean’s regularly-scheduled possible deaths are apparently _back_ , Billie slots the notebook back into its previous spot and, with a wave of her hand, they are transported again.

Their new location is not much different than the previous one. There are, again, towering bookshelves stretching out around him. Most of the rows he can see further away are empty, though- plain metallic-looking structures looming up and out, and the sight of them fills him with equal parts hollow loss and vague anticipation. The very closest shelves, however, are filled to the brim, and stretch both farther and higher along than those he saw before. The books which cover their surfaces are different, too- a pale, shifting blue so light it almost makes them look translucent- and the glittering gold lettering which graces their spines is not in English, as before, but rather a language far, _far_ more familiar to him.

He’s not surprised when Billie lays her hand against one particular bookshelf and declares it Castiel’s.

Another hand-wave has them in a smaller room, of sorts- a selection of just a few bookshelves which encircle them, each separated by just enough space for three or four human-sized bodies to wander in and out at will. Only one is filled this time, and again he doesn’t need Billie’s “And this is your little Nephilim boy” to know that the swirling, inter-connected lines of black and blue (though the blue has more of a firm, golden hue to it this time) which coat these particular books belong to Jack.

 _(He has to believe that the sheer_ number _of them is more indicative of a long life, however, than it is of the constant threat of harm. If just one wish can come true today, he hopes it’s this one.)_

And then Billie looks at him again, and there’s a strange sort of solemnity which greets him as he meets her eyes once more.

“Are you ready to see _your_ bookshelf, Sam?”

And, really, what else can he do but say yes?

“Yes.”

When Billie waves her hand again, Sam is expecting to go back to somewhere similar to those first shelves. To be greeted by a single black book, perhaps- whittled down to one final option now that his death has been decided, and simply waiting to be removed once he has passed on fully.

Instead they stand amongst near-empty whiteness, a single bookshelf before them which reaches barely more than an arm’s reach above his head, yet stretches out several yards in either direction. And while, under normal circumstances, he would find himself questioning more why so many deaths should be available for someone who shouldn’t need them anymore, it’s not the quantity which catches his attention.

It’s the colour.

His books are not as vibrant as Jack’s. There’s an oddly subdued hue to them- a hint of something silver or grey dancing in amongst the rest, as well as minuscule hints of something closer to orange dwelling somewhere in the midst of the gold. But that difference isn’t enough to hide the undeniable fact that _blue_ is one of the colours which carry the suddenly much more uncertain (to him, at least) futures within his books’ pages.

“What-?”

“All of these books,” Billie states, her conversational tone belied by the obvious unease and distaste she bears for such an unknown, “were black until the moment Rowena cast that spell. All of _Dean’s_ books contained the same story, until Rowena cast that spell. Millions of peoples’ stories- their _futures_ were altered the moment Rowena cast that spell. And you, Sam Winchester, were the one to dream that spell into existence. And _this_ -” She gestures widely at the sight before them, “-is what it did to _you._

“Which begs the question, Sam… what am I to do with you now?”

Sam had thought he had already experienced- to some extent, at least- every negative emotion it was possible to experience after death. Pain and fear and guilt and regret? Those were only the beginning. What Lucifer had done to him in that Cage- and what Michael had joined in on when the time was ‘right’- had proven as much.

And yet.

In all that time, nothing had been _quite_ the same as the unique brand of nausea rising within him now.

“What… what _am I_?”

“I don’t know,” Billie states plainly. “You were a human- albeit a tainted one- and I had planned to treat you as such should you or your brother prove yourselves worthy of something other than simply being tossed into the Empty where you wouldn’t be able to bother the world anymore. But now, though…

“You’re not a human. Not an angel. Not a nephilim, either. In fact, I’d go so far to to say that the closest I’ve seen certain aspects of these colours before-” She waves her hand once more, and suddenly they are surrounded by endless, fathomless golds and oranges, “-is in the books of the gods.” Again, and it’s his bookshelf once more. Sam swallows, fighting against the sudden haziness gripping his brain.

“...The gods?”

 _What exactly has he done to himself? And_ how _? Did some lingering element of God’s original crafting of the Cage somehow get mixed in with the spell? How did something he’d expected merely to give him that burst of necessary power before killing him… done_ this _???_

“Now here’s where things get tricky,” Billie continues, giving no indication that she intends to discuss that particular branch of the topic any further. Her stance widens slightly, and her arms fold into one another as she looks between him and his books. “Because- despite the state of your former body- these books inform me that you’re alive, Sam. And what they’re _also_ telling me… is that you have a choice to make."

Sam doesn’t swallow again, though he badly wants to. That tingle is back in his spine however, and he forces himself to straighten up, meeting Billie’s appraising gaze head-on. Because what other option does he really have?

Billie must approve, because her expression softens. Just a little. “I can take you to the Empty, Sam. Let you sleep there forever. It’s… unorthodox. But it’s one of the options. In just one of the books. Which means the rules allow it.”

Not a bad choice to make, all things considered. How many times over the past years has Sam wished for some measure of peace? Maybe this was his best chance of that.

But he still needs to know.

“And the other option?”

And, for the merest flicker of a moment, something Sam could almost describe as _pity_ seems to move in the depths of Billie’s eyes. “The other option- the one filling all these other books- is that I take you to Hell, Sam. And that you rule it. For many, _many_ years to come.”

No.

No.

He escaped this. Escaped this destiny. _Years_ ago. Rejected it. Cast it off. He can’t believe what he’s-

“No.”

Billie is suddenly further away than she was before, and it takes a moment for Sam to realise that it’s because _he_ stepped back. The movement has brought him closer to the books, too, and he swears he can almost feel the fires of Hell reaching out from them and scorching his back.

“Now hear me out,” Billie tells him, and all at once it’s like he’s back in that cabin in his mind, and he’s all too aware that this is _Death_ he’s conversing with- not just another reaper- and that the look this being is giving him is horribly, startlingly familiar.

He’s a bacterium. Who has somehow, through some twist of fate, mutated just enough to be deemed interesting.

“Hell doesn’t have to be all Fire and Brimstone, Sam. It is merely intended to be the dwelling place of those who- for whatever reason- have been deemed unfit for Heaven. And it is whatever its ruler makes it.

“And, _without_ a ruler, it tends to get… a little chaotic.”

She’s expecting him to speak.

He doesn’t know what to say.

“...Chaotic how?”

“Doors can open. Things can… slip out. It’s inevitable, really, that the eventual power struggles end up spilling into the human world.” Billie raises an eyebrow. “Of course, you already know some of this first-hand.”

His own voice suddenly echoes through the air, though there’s no visible source for it to be coming from.

“Enough! There will be no new King of Hell. Not today. Not ever.

“...And if anybody wants the job? He can come through me.

“Understood?”

Silence rings out afterwards, as something dark and foreboding fits almost comfortably in the pit of Sam’s stomach.

“They listened to you,” Billie tells him, firm and sure. “And it’s kept things calm for now. But there was always going to come a time when the battle for power would start again, Sam. Even in the meantime, there have still been demons beating at the gates of Hell. How long do you think it will be before some of them start slipping out? How long before Hell realises that you’re gone now? That there’s nothing holding any of them back from vying for the throne? Hell _needs_ a leader, Sam. And, according to those books, you would be pretty good at the job.”

“I’m not-” Sam shakes his head, vehement denial thrumming in every atom of what passes for cells in his new not-a-body. His chest feels tight, and his breaths are coming quicker than he can fully conceal anymore. “I never wanted that. I’m not a leader. And I don’t- I can’t-”

 _How could he_ ever _take on a job which would require him to torture? To become the ‘perfect’ sadistic dictator Lucifer had always initially believed he would get to inhabit and subdue?_

Billie’s head tilts again. “I think you’re misunderstanding something here, Sam. I told you- Hell doesn’t have to be what it is now. Hell is like it is because of what its former rulers declared to be true. But, even as ruler, you wouldn’t _need_ to follow in their footsteps.”

“...What do you mean?”

“You’re the one being offered the job, Sam. What do you _think_ I mean?”

Maybe it’s instinct. Or maybe it’s some demonic (or angelic. Or whatever the hell it is he is now) urge, but Sam finds himself turning towards his books. He doesn’t open them. Doesn’t need to. Contrary to how some might feel in a similar situation, Sam has no real desire to find out how he might die (again). Instead, he merely reaches out, trance-like, and lays a single finger against one dully shimmering spine.

And he can almost see it. In his mind’s eye. A Hell like no other before it. One ruled with mercy instead of wrath- where souls are punished in accordance with their individual sins, and where those who were, previously, only sent to suffer because Heaven didn’t want them can learn and grow and become _better_ in a way they may never have been granted while on Earth. He sees the ancient rules for Hell- feels them echoing deep inside of his new make-up, and knows that everything he sees _could_ be done. And, indeed, could have been done millenia before, if only those who held the power desired more than simply to hurt those placed within their realm.

He removes his finger, and the vision is gone, and Billie- apparently unaware of all that has just passed- is still speaking.

“-t entirely without its perks. With that authority, and with your new… state, it’s possible that you may even be able to spend time on Earth. Don some form of physical cloak, as a god does- and as I do- without having to possess anyone.” Sam turns back to face her, and she she offers him a wry quirk of the mouth. “Perhaps it might even prevent your brother from trying to pester me into bringing you back yet again.”

Sam stills. Blinks. And allows that to sink in. He could go back. Without disrupting the natural order any more. He could have his chance to explain his actions to Dean. Could talk with Mom and Castiel  and everyone once again. Could reassure Rowena one more time that this entire thing had been _his_ decision and not _her_ fault.

Could wipe some of that heart-wrenching grief from Jack’s face.

And yes. He knows Dean would be _furious_ with him if he chose to do this- he’s not stupid enough not to understand that much, at least- but still. Somehow… Despite how much the very thought of it makes him want to scrub every last bit of these new elements out of himself… Just a little…

...There’s a part of him that’s tempted.

As if sensing his indecision, Billie inclines her head.

“I’ll give you some time to think it over. See you soon, Sam.”

\-----

The next thing Sam knows, he’s back in that hotel room on Earth, and Dean is standing right in front of him.

He’s stumbling forward in an instant, unbridled relief rushing out of him in a gasped exhalation of his brother’s name and he begins to raise his arms-

-Then promptly draws to a shuddering halt as the crushing realisation hits that Dean has not reacted to his reappearance in the slightest.

Forcing himself to step back, Sam drags in a deep breath. He’s not sure that he even truly _has_ a heart anymore, but he imagines it calming nonetheless, soothed by the mere knowledge that at least this is solid confirmation that Dean truly _did_ survive Sam driving a blade into his side. His arm twitches with the irrational desire to reach out and feel that fact for itself, but he pushes the impulse deliberately aside, and instead centres his mind as much as he is able.

Billie sent him back here for a reason.

And, if he can’t actually _interact_ with his brother, then he supposes that reason is simply to observe.

Simple. Right. As if _any_ part of what is happening right now is simple.

Steadying his breathing even more, Sam takes a few more steps back (to avoid temptation more than anything else), and widens his observation of his surroundings.

...And it’s then that he realises what the object of Dean’s attention is: Sam’s own body, still lying right where he left it.

...He’s literally just walked backwards through his own corpse.

The thought triggers something deep inside him, and he almost has to physically clamp a hand over his own mouth to hold in the bark of hysterical laughter which wants to escape.

“Why didn’t you stop him?” Dean demands, voice harsh and hand pressed against the echo of a wound Sam knows isn’t even there anymore. “ _Why did you let him do it?_ ” Dean jerks a single step forward, his other hand- the right one- clenching where it hangs at his side, and- despite the fact that he knows he’s incorporeal, and that Dean isn’t even aware of his presence- Sam finds himself instinctively flinching inwards.

Pathetic as always. Even in death.

“We didn’t have a _choice,_ Dean,” Castiel insists, and Sam finally tears his eyes away from his brother and looks more to the left, where the angel is obviously doing all he can to resist the urge to shrink in on himself and avoid having to meet his friend’s accusatory gaze. “It was either this or else let Michael continue unchecked, and we _could not_ allow that to happen.”

“You should have found another way!”

“We _tried_.”

Sam lets the conversation fade into the background. He knows the arguments. Hell- he was the one _making_ the arguments, not so long ago. Michael was relentless. He would destroy this world, and then he would most likely just move on to the next. And the next. And the next. For however long it took for someone to step in and stop him.

They couldn’t let that happen. And losing one man in the process was _definitely_ an acceptable price, no matter how much Castiel had initially tried to argue to the contrary.

But being, logically, an ‘acceptable price’ didn’t _actually_ mean it was easy to accept, and so Sam’s eyes drift to the one who had had the hardest time of them all accepting what needed to be done.

Jack is sitting to the other side, doubled over on the graceful golden couch with his elbows on his knees and his arms wrapped tightly around his head, blocking out all that he can of the furious words and bitter rebuttals being tossed around just a few short feet away. The urge to go to him is every bit as overwhelming as it had been in life, and regret lurches to the forefront as Sam is reminded, yet again, that _he_ is the one who is putting Jack through all this pain.

He’s the one putting all _three_ of them through this pain.

He continues to watch, unable to do a thing as Dean eventually storms out and into the attached bathroom, closing the door behind himself. As Castiel, after several long moments spent standing in place, braces himself as much he can and begins the thankless task of stripping the bed so he can wrap Sam’s unwieldy corpse in the red silk sheets. He pauses before covering the face, his own expression crumbling, and Sam forces himself to watch despite how much he wants to look away.

He watches, too, the moment when Dean finally (at Castiel’s insistence) exits the bathroom, mouth tight and eyes hollow. Watches Jack unfurl, his own eyes still damp and expression stricken even though the tears themselves have stopped falling. He watches them leave- Jack (under Castiel’s instructions) checking the coast is clear of the monsters which had dogged their way up, while the other two hoist the red-clad form between them and make their way out into the hallway.

And then he’s alone, and unsure what to do.

Should he follow them? Come along as an unseen presence as they make their way down to the waiting impala? As they meet back up with Mom? As they reveal to the other Hunters in the hotel that the task is done? As they make their way back to the Bunker? As they discuss the inevitable question of whether to burn his body today or instead wait, as he knows both he and Dean have done with the other before?

He wants to. _God_ does he want to, if only so he can bear witness to what his choices have brought about and offer what silent, unseen comfort he can.

But he also knows that Billie wouldn’t have intended _this_ to be how he ‘thought things over.’

He’s been offered a job as the ruler of Hell. And, as repulsive an offer as that feels, he knows he has to take it seriously.

So he doesn’t follow. No. Instead he stays where he is, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and turns his attention inwards.

He’s different now. If he concentrates, he can feel it. There’s a power there- sharper than when he was drinking Demon Blood, and wilder than the Grace which had thrummed through him from either of the angelic forms which had dwelt within, but not _entirely_ dissimilar to any of those experiences. There are no wings at his back, like there had been with Lucifer (or, if he concentrated on the sensations which had been blocked from him at the time, Gadreel), but there’s an _energy_ of some sort which coats his entire body in their place, concentrated on his feet and hands. The spark of an idea blossoms within him and, though he’s unsure of precisely how long it takes, he focuses on that sensation. Pushes past the nausea it leaves him to imagine the pulsing power of grace washing through it. On the rush of demonically-sourced adrenaline coating his feet and carrying him forward. And then, once he’s certain the image is steady in his mind, he steps blindly forward-

And _feels_ the atmosphere shift around him.

Sam opens his eyes, and he’s in Hell.

This isn’t like being in the Cage, though. The space around him is not some unfathomable, mind-crushing maelstrom of colour and emotion and pressure which engulfs his awareness, or which can be manipulated at a moment’s notice by the whim of a bored Archangel- be it to consume him entirely or else to make him descend into a total, unending black void. Nor, either, does it feel the same as when he visited it during the trials. There are still screams of agony echoing in the background. There are still horrifying punishments being carried out as far as the eye can see. The chains stretching out endlessly above his head still tear through the millions of souls entwined among them. It’s still _heart-rendingly_ nightmarish…

...But it doesn’t feel as _permanent_ this time. There’s something in the air which, much like when he touched that book, sings at him that _he could change this._ This world is warped, but _he could untangle it_.

Stepping forward, he allows his feet to carry him forward. There are demons here, prowling in forms he couldn’t see in the past with his human eyes- molten mockeries of their former selves which have been twisted into gruesome, beast-like shapes. He expects them to react to his presence, but isn’t actually surprised when they don’t. Apparently he’s not visible here, either. Not yet, at least.

Heart bleeding for all that he can see and feel and _understand,_ Sam turns his face upwards and, with nothing more than a recollection of how it felt before, he jumps again, until he is walking seemingly through the air itself. He passes like a ghost literally _through_ the tangled web of hooks and chains, and his memories of how they would feel tearing into him no longer overwhelm him, but instead are muted by the information which thrums through him as he passes each of the inhabitants ensnared by this disgusting abomination of an afterlife- names and ages and data and flashes of the memories which led each of them to this moment. It should be too much (and, indeed, it undoubtedly _would_ have been in the past), but instead it feels natural. Like his entire life (and even his _deaths_ \- up to and including his time in the Cage) have been preparing his mind and soul to be able to cope with and process all that he is seeing and hearing and feeling.

He passes one man, and sees all of the abuse he heaped upon his wife and daughters. The man has been on this rack for five years. He was rotten through and through on Earth, and Sam understands easily why it was decided that he should suffer now. But does even a man like this deserve to have his soul tortured to _this_ extent _forever?_

There’s a woman further on who has already started to turn, and as a demon smiles at the feral look in her eyes and pries her off of the hooks, offering her instead a whip of her own, Sam knows that she’s been there for eight years, five months and thirteen days. And that she was placed upon these chains for helping to entrap dozens of women in sexual slavery.

He also knows that she, herself, was first brought into that self-same slavery when she was just eleven years old.

There’s another woman, barely even an adult, who is here for the various crimes she committed as part of a gang, and who died bleeding out in a filthy warehouse, crying for her grandmother.

There’s a teenager who was rejected from Heaven because of their suicide, but only _committed_ that suicide after being maliciously outed as being Trans inside an unaccepting mockery of a so-called ‘community.’

On Sam walks, and every soul he sees here has a story to tell. Some are more deserving of punishment than others. Some committed deeds he cannot label as anything other than _utterly_ inhumane. Many, though, are here- being maimed and mutilated and manipulated- simply for living lives they were unable to escape. There are some, too, who made deals- some to help themselves, but many more who merely wished to save their loved ones through the only option they had left.

They don’t deserve to have their souls twisted into these unsightly monsters which crawl through the depths.

So many different ‘sins.’ And yet every single one of them face the same eventual fate.

And why?

Shouldn’t the punishment fit the crime?

Shouldn’t there be an _end_ to the pain, even for those people who objectively _deserve_ to suffer for their actions?

It’s while Sam is standing above one of Hell’s many gates, watching the writhing mass of demons below him smash against it in wave after wave of desperate assaults, even while the walls themselves reach out to tear viciously into what passes for the demons’ flesh, that he realises he has already made his decision.

Perhaps he made it the moment he touched that book.

“Billie.”

And in the blink of an eye Billie is at his side. She looks down into the seething motion of activity below, then over at Sam, and the calm expression on her face tells him straight away that she knows _exactly_ what conclusion he has reached. It’s the look of one who has been through something almost strikingly similar themself.

“So how are you enjoying your first day on the job?”

Sam’s fingers twitch with the need to get to work. To fix what is wrong. And, hopefully, to undo what has been done to these poor, miserable creatures spread now beneath his feet.

“It’s been… an eye-opening experience.”

“I thought it might be.” She tilts her head. “So what are you going to do first?”

Sam looks out across the lands before him. There’s an awful lot for him to do. But he can’t help the way his mind turns to those he has left behind on Earth.

He wants to say goodbye.

He wants to explain.

But first…

Stepping forward, he allows himself to sink down. And then, once he is standing in front of the gate instead of above it, he reaches into his newfound power, and makes himself visible.

The first wave of demons halts almost immediately. The second rushes over them, catching sight of Sam on the crest and tumbling to the ground before him. The third follows. It would almost be comical, were it not for the fact that he can feel each of these demons’ torment and history and desperation bleeding into his awareness.

He waits until the mass is still before issuing his first decree.

“My name is Sam Winchester. I am the new ruler of Hell. Now go back, spread the word, and order the torture to stop. I want every soul off the rack and ready to be judged and prepared for what will come when I return with the demons who are still on Earth." When none of them move, their hideous faces frozen in a mix of confusion and fear, Sam’s heart twists in a sympathy he never thought he would feel for the forces of Hell. He smiles sadly at them, and sends out a ripple of power to let them see a small portion of what he has planned. “Go. Now. I’ll be back soon.”

Demonic faces are not, it turns out, all that well equipped to express the sudden swell of _hope_ which rushes back at him, and he feels his chest swell and his eyes water. He waits until they have rushed away to turn back and look up at where Billie stands waiting for him.

“How did you know?”

She blinks out of existence, and he follows her trail to where she reappears at his level. “I didn’t. Not exactly. But there’s a certain witch who’s still destined to die at your hand, and I suspected that might have been a little difficult for you to do if you were sleeping in the Empty the whole time.”

Rowena. He’ll need to explain things to her at some point, too. She needs to know that she didn’t do anything wrong.

Well… not in this respect, at least.

Sam studies Billie for a moment. He’s not her equal- never will be- but he feels like he’s probably allowed to make his next request.

“I don’t know if this is against the rules, but…”

“But?”

“...I want the monsters, too. Not all of them,” he rushes to explain, already seeing the rejection in the way her hands begin to come together. “Just the innocent ones. The ones who aren’t suited for purgatory. Not every monster wants to fight forever.”

The look Billie sends him this time is a curious one. She takes a moment, both studying him and (he hopes) thinking through her answer. Then, with a momentary incline of her head:

“I’ll look into the possibility. Now,” she straightens up, “I think it might be best if I’m the one to take you back, don’t you?”

Definitely. God only knows what kind of monster the others will assume has copied his form if he shows up without someone they know and (sort of) trust to help with the explanation.

He nods his head, withdraws the power which would make him immediately visible, and allows Billie to pull them both away.

\-----

Time moves faster in Hell, and just how _much_ faster is thrown into sharp relief when- though he knows he must have been roaming Hell for a few  _hours_ at least- they arrive topside to find that the others are still in the garage of the hotel. Several of the Hunters who had joined them on the Hunt are there, too, and everyone is gathered in a loose circle around the impala, leaving a respectful circle of space between them and where Dean, Jack, Mom and Castiel stand beside the open back door.

Billie allows Sam just enough time to take in the setting before revealing herself.

“Hello, Dean.”

The effect is instantaneous. Several Hunters reach for their weapons, Castiel steps protectively forward, shielding Mom and Jack from view (not that it helps, as both move subtly aside so that they can see her anyway, Mom’s face the very picture of controlled defiance), and the hectic movement doesn’t end until Dean barks out an authoritative “everybody stand down!”

Expressions all around stay wary as Dean takes a step forwards. “Billie. What are you doing here?”

Billie merely stares impassively back at him. “Never one for niceties were you, Dean?” She casts an appraising eye around the group in general- her gaze lingering just marginally longer on Mom, Castiel and Jack- before looking back at Dean. “I’m here about Sam.”

There’s a moment of pure _rage_ which flashes across Dean’s face, contrasting heavily with the pale hue which overtakes Jack and the instinctive steps forward taken by Castiel and several of the AU hunters, and Sam has to hold himself back from materialising right then and there as Dean practically _storms_ forward, Mom too late to catch his arm. He wouldn’t hold it against Billie if she backed away right there and then.

She doesn’t, though. Doesn’t even move a muscle when Dean stops right in front of her.

“What? So just taking him wasn’t enough for you? You had to come here and rub it in our faces? Gonna tell us how you threw him into the Empty or something? Is that it?”

Jack and Castiel both flinch at that, but the only motion from Billie is a sort of stiffening of her facial muscles which makes her look, just for the barest of moments, as though she is having to hold herself back from rolling her eyes. Sam, standing awkwardly just off to the side, is mostly just trying keep himself as calm as possible.

“How long will it take for it to sink into your head, I wonder,” Billie points out casually, “that I’m not here to be malicious. I do my job, and then I move on.”

“Then why are you here _now?”_

“I told you. I’m here for Sam. Or, rather, on Sam’s behalf.”

The circle stills at that. Jack takes half a step forward, his mouth opening and something almost yearning appearing in his features, but Castiel is quick to stop him. Mom’s fingers twitch automatically towards her belt. Dean’s jaw works in a steady motion as he filters through emotion after emotion, before finally settling somewhere between anger and hollow resignation.

“‘Don’t try and bring me back,’ right? That’s his message?”

“...Not quite.”

Dean’s head isn’t the only one to snap up this time. Even Castiel looks like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. The tension builds into this palpable thing, pressing down and robbing what air Sam had left from his lungs. He gulps in some more, bracing himself.

“Sam has been offered a… _position_ in the mechanism of the afterlife ,” Billie continues, her brief pause the only indication given that she sees Sam’s unease. “After taking some time to think things through, he has chosen to accept it. I’ll let _him_ explain why.”

Then, before he can talk himself out of it, Sam lets himself appear.

Dean’s “What are yo-” cuts off at once.

Mom gasps.

Castiel stares.

Mixed exclamations of “Sam!” and “Chief” ring around the group.

And Jack steps forward, a silent whisper falling from his lips, and the self-same joy on his face that Sam remembers from all those months ago, when he first walked into that camp.

Then silence.

Dean’s eyes flit between him and the empty body still laying in the impala’s back seat. “Sam?”

And, despite all the anger and confusion he knows is probably going to be aimed his way soon, Sam smiles. “Hi.”

It’s like the word sets off some sort of domino effect. Jack moves first. Then Mom. Then, in the corner of his eye, Jules. Then Evan. Aylen. Castiel. Nathan. One by one they step forward. Some brush a hand against his arm, or clap him on the shoulder. The more familiar ones offer a brief hug. Jack seems to have attached himself to Sam’s front, arms clamped around his sides like he never plans to let go. Mom isn’t much different, wrapping her arms around each of them in equal measure. Castiel stops just short, as though uncertain whether or not he can join, until Sam eventually just tugs him into it. And finally, just as he feels Castiel’s smile twitch into being against his shoulder, Dean also staggers into motion.

...And that’s when everything goes to hell (just not _his_ Hell).

Sam and Billie seem to feel it first, a sudden _pull_ to the air dragging at Sam’s new senses, and he rears back out of the hug, dragging Jack and Mom with him in his alarm. Dean, ever attuned to Sam’s every move, reacts almost as soon as the motion begins, hand flying to his belt to grab for a gun which (unless he’s re-equipped himself since Michael’s death) probably isn’t even there. Others aren’t far behind, though, looking around for whatever threat they haven’t seen. The world feels slimy. Sluggish. And even Billie takes a couple of steps back as Castiel raises his head, stiff and slow and _wrong._

“Wow,” Castiel says. Only it’s _not_ Castiel. “I didn’t expect for this to happen so soon.”

“Who are you?” Sam asks as a blade appears in Mom’s hand, and not-Castiel smiles maniacally.

“Oh, you know. Just a poor little entity who really _should_ be sleeping right now. And would be, you know, were it not for these two.” It gestures, and Sam feels Jack stiffen by his side.

“You’re the Empty,” Jack says.

Not-Castiel just smiles even more widely in return. “And now I have what I came for, so I suppose I’ll be leaving now.”

Dean finally manages to find his voice, though, drawing its attention as he does. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, they didn’t tell you,” Not-Castiel observes, that eerie smile still not fading. “Why am I not surprised?”

“What-?”

“It’s my fault.” Jack steps forward, one trembling hand still gripped lightly around the the hem of Sam’s jacket, and holds his head purposefully high. “Castiel made a deal,” he admits. “When I died. The Empty came to Heaven, and it tried to take me, but Castiel made a deal.”

Sam looks down at him, asking at the same time as Dean demands, “what kind of deal?”

And the Empty’s not smiling now. Instead it looks… _mad._ Its brows draw down, features twitching in time with the movement of its head as it explains, biting out each and every word. “Castiel woke me up, you see. Woke me from my sleep. And, ever since then, I haven’t been able to go _back._ So I made him a deal. I let that one go-” It points jerkily at Jack. “And I get to come and drag Castiel back with me the moment he allows himself to be _truly_ happy.”

The ghost of Castiel’s smile tingles against Sam’s shoulder.

Faces turn.

Guilt pools once more in his stomach.

“No.”

“Oh, yes,” the Empty nods, manic smile creeping back across Castiel’s face. “Now I’ll admit that I was expecting to have to wait a few years, but a promise is a promise. I’ve come to collect. And now I guess I’m done.”

The air moves again, energy building, and Sam reacts before thinking.

“Wait!”

And maybe it’s curiosity, or maybe it’s just the whim of a being older than the universe itself, but the Empty does. The air stills, and it cocks its head, waiting for Sam to continue.

“You said,” he fumbles, mind searching desperately for a solution. “You said Cas woke you up, right? You said you just want to sleep. What if we find a way to _make_ you sleep?”

And now it’s interested. Eyes widening, something oddly reminiscent of the hope those demons had back in Hell overtakes its features.

“You can do that?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But we can _try_.” He sends up a silent prayer. Begging- _pleading_ \- for it to take the bait. Because he _can’t_ let Castiel die. Not today. _Not because of him._

The Empty narrows its eyes. “I don’t like empty promises.”

“Look,” Dean interrupts, his own voice betraying much the same emotions as Sam’s as he circles around to stand fully beside their little group. “This isn’t the first time we’ve gone up against the impossible, alright? The apocalypse? Cain? The Mark? Amara? Michael? Sure, it might have taken us a while, but we’ve always figured it out in the end. Just… just give us some time, yeah?”

“Please,” Jack adds, and Sam’s heart bleeds for the earnest desperation in his voice. He’s far too young to have to deal with all of this. “ _Please_.”

It’s obvious they’re losing the other being, though. It shakes its head, smile harsh and bitter. “I’m not trusting the promises of a handful of humans and the little Nephilim who got away. No no no no no.”

And, before Sam’s even fully aware that he’s saying it, the words are out of his mouth.

“Then what about the promise of the new King of Hell?”

The Empty stills. ( _Everyone_ stills.) “What?”

“Look at me,” Sam says, very deliberately keeping his eyes straight. “I’m not human. Not anymore. Give me some time, and I can get all of Hell’s best researchers to try to figure something out. If we fail, then your agreement with Castiel stands, or you can take me in his place. But, if we _don’t_ fail, then you get to sleep again. Doesn’t that seem like it’s at least worth a shot?”

Silence falls. The seconds tick by. The faint hum of a police siren sounds in the distance, then fades once more. And then, _finally,_ the Empty nods.

“Alright,” it agrees. “Alright. I’ll give you one year. If you fail, though,” it whispers, stepping so close that their noses are practically touching, “I’m not just taking Castiel.” Near delirious eyes roam momentarily to the crowd of people standing closest to Sam. “I’m taking your entire line, and the Nephilim, too.”

And then, before there’s enough time to voice even a single objection, the air pulses once more, and the Empty is Gone.

Several seconds tick by before Sam can gather the courage to turn and take in the shocked, disbelieving faces of his family and friends.

“So,” he says, squaring his shoulders. Billie smiles at him, nods, then disappears. “I guess we need to talk.”

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Sam finally becomes Boyking of Hell. What is his first day like?
> 
> Now, I'm aware that this ends on a relatively open-ended note. As of right now, I have no plans to continue. That *could* change in the future, but right now I don't think it will. Regardless, however, I really hope you liked it! And huge thanks in advance for anyone who decides to leave kudos or a comment!
> 
> (Ps. For anyone wondering: Yes. The title is indeed in reference to the "everything the light touches" line from The Lion King. Lol.)


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